CHAPTER 8 #3
Connor watched the colt intently, weighing Denny's advice. "Okay, go ahead and assign Paul to start him," he finally instructed with a decisive nod. He made a few keystrokes on his computer, likely updating his records.
I appreciated this insider's glimpse into Connor's daily life.
It was a fascinating contrast to his carefree younger days back in Vermont, where he'd embraced more of a backcountry lifestyle and a completely different style of riding.
Here, at the elite Quarter Horse ranch, he seamlessly utilized his Western discipline expertise to breed, train, and showcase the world-class horses his family had become renowned for over the decades.
But back in those more laid-back Vermont days, Connor had eagerly explored English riding, dabbling in Equitation and Jumpers to broaden his horsemanship skills.
I fondly remembered the first time Sam and I had watched him display his natural talent aboard a high-spirited jumper.
Despite being raised primarily as a Western rider, he'd adapted to the intricacies of English style with impressive ease.
It wasn't long before the fearless Connor was entering local show-jumping competitions, borrowing one of Sam's horses to compete alongside us.
Though his roots were firmly planted in Western riding, Connor's ability to transition so skillfully between disciplines demonstrated not only his talent but also his passion for learning and expanding his horizons.
It made me appreciate and respect him all the more.
I got up from my chair and wished both Denny and Connor a polite good afternoon before making my way out of the office. I decided I wanted to spend some quality time simply grooming and pampering Choco—not for a ride, but just to bond with him.
As I left the office area and crossed the property toward the other barn, I couldn't help but notice Jaxon's Jeep parked off to the side, the black paint dusty from the dirt roads, one of the back windows partially rolled down.
His tall figure lounged in the driver's seat with the door propped open, one boot-clad foot stretched out onto the running board.
He was still wearing the same navy T-shirt and faded jeans from earlier, though he'd pulled on a black baseball cap, the brim casting his face in shadow.
He appeared completely engrossed in something on his phone screen.
Our eyes met fleetingly as I passed by, his gaze sharp and unyielding as always, even in the shade of that cap.
Mine were instinctively cautious as I quickly averted my stare and continued toward the barn.
I could feel the weight of his eyes lingering on my retreating form even after I'd looked away, a prickling awareness rising between my shoulder blades.
Once inside the dimly lit yet spacious barn, I exhaled a soft sigh of relief at the temporary escape from Jaxon's penetrating presence.
The familiar scents of hay, leather, and horses wrapped around me like a comforting blanket.
I efficiently gathered Choco's grooming supplies—stiff bristle brushes, a rubber curry comb, a hoof pick, and my favorite horse-safe shampoo in its blue bottle.
When I stepped back outside into the warmth of the late-morning sun, I noticed his Jeep was still parked in the same spot, but there was no sign of Jaxon himself anywhere.
A small smile played across my lips as the tension in my shoulders eased.
I wasn't particularly keen on him silently observing me while I tended to my beloved horse.
His absence was a welcome, if momentary, reprieve from the strain that so often accompanied his company these days.
With my supplies tucked under one arm, I went through the gate and headed into the pasture to find Choco, who was contentedly grazing with his herd mates.
I was eager to put my focus into the simple, therapeutic act of grooming and bathing him.
The thought of spending an hour or two in the soothing company of my equine friend was deeply comforting after the tensions of the earlier altercation with Jaxon.
As I was wrapping up my regimen, meticulously brushing Choco to a splendid shine, his copper coat gleaming in the sunlight and his white socks practically glowing, I glanced up and noticed a fuming Jaxon storming out of the other barn.
He'd shed the baseball cap, clenching it in his fist, and his dark hair was disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly.
His eyes immediately scanned the area until they locked dead onto mine, the sudden, intense eye contact hitting me like a punch to the chest. His brows were tightly knit, jaw clenched, fists curling at his sides.
Even from this distance, I could see the tension radiating through his entire body, from his rigid shoulders down to his planted stance.
Without a moment's hesitation, he turned, stalked toward his Jeep, wrenched the driver's-side door open, and peeled out in a spray of loose gravel, the ear-splitting screech of tires echoing across the yard.
I stood there beside Choco, completely bewildered by Jaxon's sudden, volatile outburst. What on earth could have possibly set him off into such visible rage this time? I racked my brain, trying to think of anything I might have done or said to provoke such an extreme reaction, but came up empty.
As I resumed the final brushing strokes along Choco's sleek mane, my mind spun, replaying our recent string of heated interactions in an attempt to pinpoint the reason behind his stormy departure.
But I found myself drawing a blank, left just as confused and frustrated as ever by Jaxon's perpetually mercurial moods.